on the edge of a knife
by The North Wyn
Summary: Ward screws up his third mission back with the team. Dissatisfied with Coulson's means of dealing with this infraction, Ward takes matters into his own hands. After all, he disobeyed a direct order and there have to be consequences. Future Fic. Redemption Arc ish.


**_TW: Self-Harm_**

* * *

"_The quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail. But hope remains, if friends stay true." - Galadriel, LOTR _

* * *

It's the third mission he's been allowed to run since being back with the team.

There are rules, of course. He's to do _exactly _as he's ordered. No more, no less. He can do that. He has to wear a tracker. He can do that, too. And he can never _ever _miss.

He can do that.

* * *

He's the sniper. There's obvious concern about him being allowed a gun at all, but the general consensus seems to be that they aren't going to trust him with anything smaller than a sniper rifle and that they'll stay behind his line of fire. He's only to shoot or neutralize anyone who gets away from them.

Trip leads him to the roof before they breach and then leaves him there. He's not to leave until Trip comes back for him.

He's wired into comms, same as everyone else, but he always keeps completely silent.

* * *

He's done absolutely everything expected of him for the first two missions and he sees no reason this should be different.

Then Skye starts yelling for back-up over the comms.

It's a split second decision. It's all instinct. He hears Skye yelling and he leaves his post.

It's the one thing he's not supposed to do.

* * *

Even though, since he's not to move once in the field, he won't need them, he's memorized the floor plans of every place they attack. Just in case.

Two flights of stairs, a right turn, a left turn, and through a door, and then he's there.

Skye's sitting on the floor, holding her arm, blood dripping through her pale fingers.

Ward's heart speeds up in panic, but he quickly realizes she's only been winged and is more angry than hurt. May nudges Skye's hand away from the wound and says something softly to her. Trip produces some gauze from nowhere and he and May get to work on patching up Skye while Coulson leans over them all, fussing.

Ward backs quickly out of the room. He was supposed to shoot Roman if he got away from the team. If they were all _here _and Roman was _not _that meant he had got away.

That meant Ward had failed.

* * *

Once back on the rooftop, he sees Roman peeling out in an armored jeep. There's no way he can get him from here.

He takes a wild shot anyway.

He hits the car, but not enough to do damage.

Roman gets away.

* * *

Ward stands in front of Coulson's desk, spine ramrod straight, arms crossed tightly behind him.

"Sir. I'll take whatever punishment you give me."

Coulson frowns. "Punishment?"

"For disobeying a direct order."

Coulson sighs. He looks up at Ward from where he's seated, weariness clear on his face.

"Honestly, it was a blow to lose Roman. He was a good lead. But we were taken unaware. We lost him because we were _all _concerned with Skye. As we should be. If we had ended up with another-." His voice trails off and he knows that they are both thinking of finding a blood-soaked Skye on a basement floor in Italy so many months before.

Coulson shakes his head a little and looks back up. "Anyway, she's safe. We're _all _safe. That's all that matters. You're not in trouble, Ward. Dismissed."

"But, Sir-"

"Go back to your room, Ward."

Room, not cell. They all ghost around the subject of it being his cell, although they all know that is what it is.

"Yes, Sir." Ward nods tersely and turns on his heel to leave.

He's _frustrated _by the outcome of his conversation with Coulson.

He hadn't followed orders.

There had to be consequences.

Garrett—he swallows roughly—isn't here to do it for him.

Coulson won't do it for him.

Trip wouldn't do it, either.

They're both too good.

Or—or. Well, he doesn't know what they are. But he knows they won't do this for him, no matter how much he begs. No matter how much of a kindness this would be.

But he knows that he can't make this right any other way. This is the only way he learns. The only way he pays his debt.

He'll have to do it for himself.

He walks over to the wall of his cell. Tests its strength with his hands. (Unnecessary—he knows every inch of these walls by heart now.) He steps three paces back from it. He hurls himself against it, head first.

* * *

Trip curses and takes off running. May glances down at the screen showing a feed of Ward's cell. Her stomach constricts. She takes off running herself.

* * *

His head is throbbing and he's split his lip open, but it's not enough. He throws himself against the wall in repetitive, frenzied movements.

Strong arms wrap around him, pinning his arms in place against his chest. He struggles against them.

"Ward! Ward! Grant, stop!"

Trip presses him against the wall, immobilizing his head with a carefully placed arm. "Shh. Stop. It's ok."

He stops fighting, lets Trip lead him over to his cot, and gently push him down. He lies down on his side. Trip kneels down beside him, placing one hand gently on his neck and cupping his chin with the other so he can examine Ward's wounds.

May appears and sits down on the cot beside Ward. In one quick movement, she uncaps a syringe and rolls his sleeve up.

"I'm going to give you something to help you calm down."

"No. Please don't." The child-like desperation in his voice and his face gives her pause. His next words even more so. "I'll be good, I promise."

She glances over at Trip, her right hand holding the syringe aloft, fingers of her left hand still entangled in the soft black cotton of Grant's t-shirt. She looks back down at Ward and sighs softly.

"Fine. But you need to lay still and be calm. Can you do that?"

He nods. Her hand slides off his arm and she sheathes the needle. She stands.

"I'm going to find Coulson."

Trip nods. "I think we should watch him for twenty-hours to make sure he doesn't try this again."

May nods.

"You don't need to. I won't." Ward says brusquely.

"You tried to hurt yourself. You don't get a say in this," Trip says gently, but firmly.

"I'll come back and trade out with you later," May says, heading for the door.

After she leaves, Trip stands up and goes over to the tiny sink in the corner of the room. He fills a flimsy Dixie cup two-thirds full with tap water. He grabs the washcloth—meticulously folded—sitting on the sink and dampens it. He can feel Ward's eyes on his back. He's lying perfectly still, like he's been told to do, but he's still following Trip's every movement. Trip walks back over and kneels on the floor beside the bunk again. He holds out the cup.

"Here, drink this."

Ward takes it tentatively. He takes a few small sips, then gulps the rest. He crumples the cup between his palm and fingers. He sets it down guiltily. Trip hopes his self-inflicted punishment hadn't included a plan to deny himself food and water. He makes a mental note to watch Ward's fluid intake over the twenty-four hour period. Also, he decides to eat his own meals during his shifts, so as to make sure Ward ate his.

He hands Ward the washcloth next. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Ward quickly and efficiently cleans the wounds on his face, without so much as a wince as the cloth brushes his raw skin.

He hands the washcloth back to Trip. "Nothing will need stitches," he reports flatly.

Trip takes the washcloth and looks closely at Ward's face, trying to see for himself if the other man is telling the truth. He seems to be; Trip caught him before he could do too much damage, thankfully.

* * *

Phil sighs. "Perhaps this was too much. Maybe it's been too hard for him to be back out in the field. Too high stress. Maybe we should send him back to prison."

"No," May says, sharply, pressing her lips tightly together, "I think sending him back would make it worse."

Coulson looks curiously over at her. "You still care, after everything?"

"I cared about him before. And he betrayed that trust. But holding onto that and onto how it was before was destroying me, Phil."

"So you forgive him?"

"No."

"But you don't hate him?"

She doesn't answer for a moment, then shakes her head. It's a complicated question and an even more complicated answer.

"And you can't bring yourself to turn your back."

May looks up, lips pursed, but does not reply.

He sighs. "Me neither. It's not in our nature, Melinda."

She doesn't know about her nature, but seeing the best in people and giving second chances is definitely in Phil's.

"But I'm still not sure this is the best place for him," Phil continues, "He can't melt down like this, just because a mission went badly. We're not equipped to deal with this. And managing the rest of the team's emotional well-being is priority. I don't know that we can do both."

"Trip's good for him," May says absently, "He wasn't hurt the same way the rest of us were. It's easier for him to be Ward's handler."

"And keeper," Phil adds quietly.

"Keeper? You think he should be responsible for Ward's soul?"

"Everyone needs someone. You keep mine."

"No, I think you keep _mine_," she replies, with a small quirk to her lips.

"What are friends for?" he laughs.

* * *

Trip leans forward to look Ward in the eyes for a moment. "It's hard, isn't it?"

Ward frowns. Trip's studying him intently; it's making him uncomfortable. "What?"

"Not having Garrett around to give orders."

"No." It's said quickly, too quickly to be honest, and they both know it.

"Is that the real answer or the correct one?" Trip prompts.

"Does it matter?"

"You know it does. The only way this works is if you're honest, starting with yourself."

Ward hesitates. "Then, yes. I've had his voice in my head since I was sixteen years old. I find its absence … confusing. I know that makes me … _weak_, but it's … "

His words trail off. Whether they are because Ward genuinely has no idea how to express the emotional confusion he is currently experiencing or because he didn't believe Trip would understand was something Trip could only guess at and he really didn't know which. Perhaps it was some of both.

"Having to constantly listen for that voice; I don't know that that makes you weak, Ward. I think it makes you human. Unlearning stuff is _hard_. And Garrett was particularly persuasive. I served under him, too."

"It's not the same. You were … You didn't do anything for Garrett that they want to hang you for."

Trip leans back, thoughtfully. "No. But no one's looked too closely at me, either."

Ward looks over at him in surprise. "Did you...? But you weren't Hydra. What could you have possibly done?"

"I took my orders directly from Garrett. Who knows what things he ordered me to do in the name of S.H.I.E.L.D. that were really for _Hydra_." There is a hard bitter edge to his voice.

He continues, "I didn't look too close. Didn't ask questions. My job was to make sure Garrett got what he wanted. You know how it was."

Ward sighs and looks down at his hands. "Yeah. I do."

* * *

"So, what are we going to do?"

May glances up at Phil. "We can't turn our back."

"He's going to have be different. I don't mean just not-Hydra different, but he can't do _this_."

"Do you think he can do it?"

"Do _you_?"

May sighs softly. There are so many things that she believed about Grant Ward that were not true. But he was _hurting _so much and confused and she found that now that her anger towards him had softened, his pain pulled on her heart strings. His pain had drawn her to him at the very beginning, so perhaps the feeling shouldn't surprise her now.

Now she _wanted _to believe that he could do this.

She had never held much to what she wanted to believe.

But Ward's behavior this afternoon had seemed to support the idea that Ward _wanted _to be better.

He simply didn't know how. She supposed that's where they come in.

"I think he wants to and that's the first step."

Phil nods, satisfied. "Trip recommends we watch him for twenty-four hours?"

May nods. "We'll trade off."

"I'll take a turn watching him."

"Phil, are you sure? You don't have to."

"Yes. You two could use a rest and besides, I want to talk to him."

May nods again and leaves.

Coulson glances at the window, lost in his thoughts.

* * *

May reaches into the cupboard. She's looking for a specific mug, but she still hesitates when she finds it.

It's dusty.

* * *

"I know you prefer coffee, but," May sits down on the cot beside him, "You don't need the caffeine right now. It's chamomile tea."

He wants to pretend he doesn't notice that she remembered the mug he always used to use—back when he was with the team.

He takes a sip, cupping the mug in his hands. Its warmth is comforting. So is the routine of this, May bringing him tea, just like she used to when they—he doesn't let himself finish the thought. He doesn't deserve this.

"Just like ol-" He stops, abruptly remembering the last time he had said that to her.

Not his finest moment.

It made the fact that she was sitting here with him now all the more remarkable. He feels his heart swell with warmth and gratitude.

She raises her eyebrows at him before taking a slow sip from her own mug. "You can't ever go back. The Grant Ward who we knew died the moment you dropped Fitzsimmons. And the Grant Ward you really were died the moment Garrett did. You were both. Now you're neither."

"What does that leave?" Ward asks, his voice cracking.

"You have to figure that out for yourself."

"I—I don't know where to start."

There's a vulnerability here that she hasn't seen in she doesn't know how long. She blinks away the memory of him naked in her bed in Ireland. Even after everything, she has been unable to find a lie in that moment.

May leans forward, looking intently at him. "You start by getting up. Every day. Breathe. Get dressed. Put one foot in front of the other. You go to bed. You get up. You do it all again. You let your scars heal, knowing that they will always be part of you. You let them remind you that you are _different_, but you can choose who that different is. You start by _getting_ up. _Every day_."

While they've been talking, her hand has traveled idly—although they both know Melinda May does nothing idly—across the cot to rest by his. Their fingers are brushing. He thinks distractedly of a long-ago rage that settled to a simmer when she offered him her hand.

He had taken so much from her and he'd never even said thank-you. He's not sure now would be a good time, but he wishes he could find the moment. She deserves to know.

He looks up, deep into eyes that haven't looked this kindly on him since … Italy.

He wonders how anyone can think she's cold.

"May-"

She pulls her hands back, not unkindly, and says quietly. "Not now, Ward."

He nods. "You'll let me say it someday?"

She looks away from him, takes a thin breath through pursed lips. "Yes."

Someday's good. He can do someday. "Thank you."

* * *

Phil's been hoping he's doing the right thing. Taking Ward back had been a leap of faith; well, less like a leap and more like walking a tight-rope over a bottomless cavern. Blindfolded. One wrong move and you're dead.

He'd never considered that perhaps Ward felt the same way.

* * *

Fitzsimmons and Skye are hovering. They're huddled in the common room, down the hall from Ward's cell. Skye is leaning over something; he presumes it's her tablet, from which she had hacked into the video surveillance feed of Ward's cell on day one. Trip is standing beside all of them. He has his arm around Simmons' shoulders.

"Is he going to be ok?" Fitz asks, his voice scratchy with emotion.

Coulson leaves Trip to answer that question; he certainly doesn't know the answer.

They don't seem afraid of him, Coulson muses idly as he continues walking.

Perhaps it's hard to be afraid of someone when you realize the biggest threat they pose is to themselves.

Perhaps it's hard to hate them then, too.

He sighs and opens the door to Ward's room. May's pulling the covers carefully over Ward. She glances up at him as he enters. In the dark, he can't read her expression, but the fact that she's here, in the same room as Ward, and he's still breathing; Well, it's a testament to her resilience.

"He's asleep," May says in quiet tones. She stands up and stretches. "Doubt it will last long."

"No. I doubt it."

May walks across the room towards him. She comes to stand in front of him with a soft sigh.

She squeezes his bicep gently. "Good night, Phil. Let me know if you need anything."

She glances sideways at the man sleeping on the bed in a way that clearly indicates that her statement includes if Ward needs anything.

He nods. "Ok. Get some rest."

And Phil almost smiles as she leaves, because if he and May—or anyone—he doesn't know why he thought May—had had kids, this might have been how it was. Taking turns trading off shifts watching over their child as he sleeps, keeping all the nightmares at bay.

But he never had kids. And neither had May. And he doesn't want to think about he could have seen the May before Bahrain wanting children one day, but how that was no longer in her cards, after.

And Ward is far from their kid. He is an adult. An adult who had murdered people, betrayed his team, and _tried _to murder the most vulnerable members of the team. Who had practically kidnapped the woman he claimed to love.

Still. _Still_.

He doesn't look like a killer, sleeping on his side, curled up like he's trying to protect himself from the world. Coulson pulls the covers higher up, until they cover Ward's shoulders and sighs softly as he sits down on the edge of the cot, in the same space that May had been occupying.

He looks down carefully at Ward's face, trying to read the secrets written there. Lying, avoiding, diverting attention from whatever he doesn't want you to see: all things Ward is good at, but it's hard to do any of those while asleep.

In his sleep, with the bruises covering his faces, he just looks like a kid who's been kicked around by the world.

Until now, Phil's been avoiding thinking about how _desperate _you had to be to do this, try to hurt yourself, to _punish_ yourself for what you viewed as failure. Perhaps even worse was the fact that Ward had only disobeyed because Skye had been in danger.

It was not something Coulson would ever punish anyone for, caring.

_John, what did you do to him? _

What did you do to a kid that made him think this was the only way to behave, to live?

That failure and caring were to be met only with physical punishment?

Coulson feels a little sick, thinking of a file that was way too light, thinking of a terrible past, the pieces of which they are only now beginning to get out of Ward, and only in small details.

He has to figure out a way to reach Ward, reach through to a terrified sixteen-year-old kid trapped in the body of a thirty-one-year-old soldier, to tell him that physical punishment will not be part of his atonement.

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Easier said then done.

Well, he _had _wanted a project, hadn't he? Hadn't Ward and Garrett said as much?

He used to be good at lost causes: Akela, Clint, Natasha. Used to be good at people and second chances.

He's not so forgiving these days.

But he had wanted a project. He was going to fix Ward up; that was part of the reason he had wanted him on the team in the first place.

It's just that Ward was way more of a project than he had expected.

Perhaps that wasn't any reason to turn his back.

He sighs and looks back down at Ward, trying to make peace with his thoughts. It hurts to look at him. Hurts because of who he is and what he's done, but also because of what's been done to him.

Ward startles awake then, with a violent shudder, although there was no sound or touch to rouse him from his sleep. Ever the soldier, he quickly scans his surroundings. He freezes when he sees Coulson. He sits up quickly.

"Sir."

"Ward, how are you feeling?"

Crisply: "Fine."

It's probably not an honest answer, but how would Phil know? Ward had pulled the wool so thoroughly over his eyes before; Phil doubted he would ever know for sure the difference between his truth and his lies. He leans forward to more closely inspect the other man's face.

"It'll leave some nasty bruising."

Ward's lips actually twitch. "Wouldn't be the first time, Sir."

"No," Coulson replies. "I suppose not."

There is an awkward silence, then Ward asks, "Sir, is there something I can do for you?"

"Garrett was one evil s.o.b."

Ward looks taken aback. "Sir?"

"He was my friend and I didn't know. You were on my team and I_ didn't _know."

"With all respect, Sir, that was the point."

"I know. And don't think I'm not mad about that."

"It's not..." Ward seems to struggle for a minute. "You were too pious for Jo—Garrett. Too _good. _A soft touch. But now—now I—I don't think those are bad things."

He looks _guilty_, but also hopeful. It dawns on Coulson that Ward is looking to him to confirm that what he said was right. That what he was now trying to _believe _was right.

Love was not a weakness. Caring was not a weakness. It was important Ward realized that. Maybe that was a good start.

"The kids are worried about you. I thought you should know."

Ward grimaces and looks away. "Sorry. I never—I don't want them to worry about me."

"I didn't tell you that to punish you, Ward. It means they care. I thought you would want to know that."

Coulson watches carefully as the emotions flicker across Ward's face at lightening speed—chagrin, surprise, and hope.

"Earn that concern, Ward. Be the man they think you can be. The man _I _know you can be."

"I—I want to. More than anything." He is trembling, balled fists digging into his thighs, with breathing labored, like the confession cost him.

It probably did.

The question _how_ lingers between them, unspoken, but understood.

Small steps. Infinitesimally small steps. Rome wasn't built in a day.

He points to the injuries adorning Grant's face. "Promise me you won't do this again."

"No, Sir."

"I mean it."

"So do I."

"Good."

Coulson stands up. "Tomorrow, Grant, we start over. Clean slate."

Ward watches him leave with wide eyes. His chest feels like it's on fire with the hope and the pain that this second chance is giving him.

Phil turns back at the door. "Until tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow, Sir."

* * *

-end-


End file.
